


solaris' arsenal

by Anonymous



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Character, Humor, M/M, Multi, Pre-Game(s), probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 23:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10524582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: KM prompt:A Soul Eater-style AU where instead of Noctis summoning weapons, the power of his bloodline is to wield people he's compatible with as his weapons.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving this over from the kinkmeme. It's a WIP that is **probably discontinued**. Please bear this in mind before reading. Thank you!

 

On Noctis’ thirteenth birthday, his father gifts him with a Weapon.

“Noctis,” King Regis says, laying a hand frail beyond his years upon his son’s shoulder. Managing a kingdom is no small task, and though Noctis has yet to gain the tall, gangly limbs and sharp edges of adolescence, his cheeks still round with childhood, his hair the unkept raven’s nest, he understands that his father’s time is a luxury. Sparse are the hours in which they can lounge around in their family quarters playing games or watching TV, racing each other to eat the most popcorn or pulling faces at the characters on the screen. As such, Noctis is neither sad nor surprised at the weighted call of his name, the steady touch on his shoulder (affectionate, but steady, the slightest of grips demanding his attention), or his father’s pensive expression as Noctis sets the game aside. Somebody else has entered the room, Noctis realises, and he scrambles to stand beside his father as they approach.

His father’s hand remains in place, warm still from the mug of hot chocolate they had doused in half a tube of whipped cream. Noctis leans into it despite himself, recognising the intimidating sight of his father’s Sworn Shield - Clarus, a man with less hair than his father and a face twice as fierce - but not the woman a half step behind. The woman is carrying what seems to be a large slab of metal cut into a shape that is neither a rectangle nor an oval, but something in between. Its surface is the polished Royal black that Noctis instantly recognises, except for the weird, almost wing-like pieces that adorn the corners, which are a colour somewhere between gold and orange that Noctis struggles to name. The entire thing is as tall but must be twice, maybe three times as heavy as he is, and Noctis glances at his father in question once the usual greetings are exchanged.

“Noctis, this is Bernice, the Weapons Master, and she has something for you. Do you know what this is?” his father asks, motioning for the woman to come closer. The orange-y edges of the object glint in the light, and it makes Noctis thinks of a lone campfire crackling in the night.

“It’s a shield,” Noctis replies, thinking this an odd present to receive. Normally, he gets books or sweets. “It can’t be for me - it’s too big.”

His father smiles - but it’s that sad smile he uses whenever he knows something Noctis doesn’t, and Noctis doesn’t like it. “It is big, yes, but it’s yours. This is a Daemon Weapon, Noctis. Can you tell me what that means?”

“It’s… a person? But I thought I had to choose a Weapon?”

“You will choose others,” King Regis agrees. “But not this time. My father gave me Clarus when I turned thirteen, so as he is my Shield, Gladiolus will be yours. It is tradition. You will bond with other Weapons as you grow older, but you must learn the responsibilities of being a Meister. Gladiolus will stand by you.”

Noctis isn’t sure how to feel about that. Everybody says that a Meister and a Weapon need to agree to work together, and just being _given_ his Shield feels wrong. He knows that Clarus and his father are good friends, but they’re older, Noctis thinks, and they’ve known each other forever. He doesn’t think he’s even met Gladiolus before.

“What if we don’t get along?”

“Bernice has assured me that you should be compatible,” his father says, the Weapons Master agreeing with a nod. “But you won’t know until you introduce yourself, will you?”

“Um.” Noctis edges closer to the shield, blinking at his reflection in the pitch-black shine. With his father’s encouragement, he taps the orange embellishment on the shield, almost disappointed to feel that it’s cold. “Hi? You’re… Gladiolus, right? I’m Noctis. But you can call me _Noct_ , I guess?”

At first, there is nothing to be heard except the sound of his own nervous breaths, but then there is a rumble as though from _within_ Noctis’ head, a voice speaking solely to his ears and answering to his call alone.

_/Gladio’s fine./_

Noctis doesn’t yelp, but it’s a close thing. “I heard him, I heard him!” he cries, rounding on his father’s amused smile. “But how does he talk without a mouth? How are you talking? Have you got eyes, can you see me? Where’s your _face_?”

“There’s no need to interrogate him, Noctis,” his father reprimands, hand moving to settle in Noctis’ hair instead. “Do you need to be reminded of your manners?”

Noctis colours faintly, realising that Clarus and Bernice are present. He mumbles an apology but doesn’t go so far as to _thank_ them - Gladio is still a person even if he doesn’t have eyes or a mouth or even a _nose_ , and Noctis refuses to accept him like a _gift_ \- and though he cannot be sure because adults are confusing and Gladio doesn’t have a _face_ , he thinks they all approve.

 

 

 

Gladio does, in fact, have a face (and a nose, mouth, eyes, and a body that’s just as human as Noctis is), but considering that most of the time it’s being used to glower, Noctis thinks he prefers Gladio as a shield.

They _are_ compatible, just as King Regis and the Weapons Master predicted, but not - _all_ of the time. Even as Noctis stretches his way into fifteen, stumbling tall and awkward like a spiracorn finding its feet, Gladio’s shield is too cumbersome to wield. Gladio’s human form is built like a wall, all six foot six inches of it, and his eyes are the amber fire and his back is embraced by the eagle that decorates his shield. He is, in every way possible, Noctis’ Sworn Shield, which means he’s as stubborn as hell and hits like a _truck_.

He can be funny, too, in a casual sort of way as though making other people laugh comes naturally to him. People revolve around him; he’s friendly with everybody. He’s one of those people who remembers pointless tidbits of information and keeps a calendar of birthdays in his head, and Noctis hates that he has to _earn_ Gladio’s smile when everybody else seems to get it for free.

Noctis respects Gladio just as much as he wants to warp over and smash his stupid smug smile from his stupid gorgeous face. Except he can’t, because warping is _impossible_ and Gladio would probably punch him in the same way he once punched the paparazzi for yanking Noctis’ coat - which had been _amazing_ , yeah, but definitely hadn’t helped Noctis get over his silly crush.

What’s worse is that he’s not _just_ crushing on Gladio; he’s completely enchanted by another Daemon Weapon too. Ignis has been something of a constant even in Noctis’ early life, a little shadow behind the councilmen and occasionally a fellow student under a tutor’s watchful eye. Noctis has always known that Ignis is a Weapon, but he had never thought much of it until after he was introduced to Gladio and was thrust head-first into the responsibilities and life of a Meister. It is only once Noctis attends the local school and realises that noble children across the city - those more likely to be born as a Meister or Weapon, those taught how to adapt to this dangerous lifestyle - are beginning to bond with one another, that he wonders who Ignis is paired with.

It takes a few months for Noctis to pluck up the courage and ask - months during which he stalks Ignis so badly that Gladio eventually hauls him down to the Crownsguard barracks and dumps him onto a Kingsglaive-in-training by the name of Nyx with instructions not to return him _until he can sneak around properly, please, he’s an embarrassment_. Noctis has to wonder if all Weapons in the citadel know each other, for Nyx laughs when Gladio explains that Ignis is the unlucky target of Noctis’ infatuation; Noctis protest that he isn’t _infatuated with anybody_ (debatable), but Nyx simply clamps him on the shoulder with a smile.

“Ignis is pretty mean with a pair of daggers,” he explains, winking at the mortified Prince. “If your stealth is as bad as Gladio says it is, you’re lucky not to have lost your nose.”

Noctis shakes Nyx’s hand away, unsettled by the fact that somebody can be as touchy-feely as Gladio, but grudgingly accepts the training. Nyx takes it in stride, maintaining a respectable distance after that, and while the weeks that follow not only boost Noctis’ confidence about approaching Ignis as well as teaching him valuable survival skills, it does leave him wishing that Nyx, too, would agree to bond as one of his Weapons.

“I can’t. Kingsglaive-in-training, remember? You’ll have your own Kingsglaive one day - and hey, if I live that long, _then_ I’ll be sworn to you too,” Nyx says.

That does little to reassure Noctis. “You sure?”

“Sorry kiddo,” Nyx says, the apology genuine and the nickname an apparent compromise to Noctis’ reservations about touch. It’s not that Noctis doesn’t _mind_ Gladio or Nyx being physically affectionate, not really, it’s just something he’s not used to. He’s never told Gladio overwise because Noctis handles him _all of the time_ when he’s a shield, so it’s only fair, really. Nyx is different because they’re _Nyx_ (and not, as Noctis had assumed, a _he_ ); they aren’t bonded to Noctis or even technically in his service, and their refusal to bond stings more than Noctis thought it would.

Ignis, on the other hand, turns out not to be partnered with anybody. When asked why not, he adopts a quiet that has Noctis squirming where he stands, a blush crawling up his neck as Ignis considers him over the thick frames of his glasses.

“We could bond,” Noctis blurts, still an awkward teenager no matter how adept he is at sneaking out of the citadel now. (Gladio will come to regret Noctis’ improved stealth - _teenage_ and _difficult to track_ is a combination that spells trouble, but Nyx will get a kick out of it).

“Are you certain?” Ignis asks, clutching a clipboard as though he might whack Noctis with it at any second. Noctis wonders if this means that Meisters hounding Weapons to bond with them is something that does happen, and not merely behaviour that his father warned him from doing.

More carefully now, he continues: “I want to - but only if you want to. We’re probably compatible, right? What’s your form? As long as you’re not a shield, I think we’re gonna be good.”

“I am a lance,” Ignis replies, looking faintly bemused, and Noctis almost punches the air.

 _Almost_ , because he realises that Ignis is evading the crucial question. “Err, wait - does that mean you want to give it a go?”

Ignis inclines his head, more like a hawk than a puppy. “I would not be opposed to _giving it a go_ , as you put it, no,” he replies, only to mirror Noctis’ earlier blush at the Prince’s blank look. “I apologise, I did not mean - I mean, yes, Your Highness. I would be honoured to partner with you.”

Ignis smiles, and this is the moment that Noctis realises he’s fucked.

 

 

 

Noctis never acts upon his feelings - at least, not in the vicinity of Gladio or Ignis. Not only are they in the service of the Crown, and thus _employed_ by the King, they are also Noctis’ Daemon Weapons. He has heard horrible tales of Meisters being cruel or even abusive towards their Weapons, and while protecting Noctis may be Gladio and Ignis’ duty, their happiness and wellbeing are, in turn, Noctis’ responsibility. By seventeen, Noctis has come to call them his friends, and he would rather pine after them forever than risk harming or pushing them away.

Nyx is sympathetic to his plight in the way that Noctis imagines any sensible older sibling would be.

“Well you’re not old enough to drink yet,” they muse, lounged out across the sofa in their apartment as Noctis flicks a pair of throwing daggers at the wall, summoning each blade back to himself as it hits the target. They’re Nyx’s favourite pair, and while Noctis has known the Glaive for some years now, it still amuses him to think that Nyx both wields and _is_ a set of daggers.

“How ‘bout we get takeout and watch a crappy movie?”

That sounds good to Noctis. “We’re getting kebabs.”

“We always get kebabs,” Nyx groans, shoving him with their foot. Noctis’ next dagger pings against the TV before disappearing behind the cabinet, but Nyx just rolls their eyes.

“And _that_ is why I can never get any signal,” they sigh.

On the plus side of Noctis never being able to admit his feelings towards Gladio and Ignis because they’re his Weapons, they _are_ his Weapons. Granted, they spend most of their days in their human forms, Gladio training with the Crownsguard or chest-deep in textbooks in the library, and Ignis attending council meetings, writing reports, cooking, or organising Noctis’ life for him, but when their schedules slot together, they are inseparable. While they can often be found out in the east grounds of the citadel, Noctis would hesitate to say that they _train_. Fighting is often involved, but wielding any old blade is _incomparable_ to the feel of a Weapon in his hands. Gladio is still something of a challenge to manoeuvre - he really is more of a wall than a shield - but Ignis’ polearm form is a breeze.

They spar, Noctis wielding Ignis against Gladio’s thunderous blows and then ducking behind the Shield’s very literal defence when Ignis brandishes his daggers, but it’s not about who wins or loses. It’s about afterwards, when Gladio is flopped on the ground after fending off Ignis’ _I-could-murder-the-councilmen_ assault, when Noctis is flattened underneath him after misjudging a warp with the shield and almost crashing them through a window, and when Ignis is seconds from collapsing but still fussing over them both, glasses askew and one of his gloves lost who-knows-where.

“You both okay?” Noctis wheezes, laughing when he tries and fails to shove his Shield from on top of him. “Gladio?”

“Fine,” Gladio grunts, exemplifying a giant, dumb cat chilling after a batting a toy mouse a few times. “Gonna take more than a few daggers to scratch me.”

“I felt you wince.”

“Yeah ‘cause you almost _threw me through a window_ -”

“Hey, I _tripped_ -”

“You winced, Gladio?” Ignis interrupts. He sounds a little breathless, and yet a simple readjustment of his glasses on the bridge of his nose seems to negative any exhaustion that he feels. He glides over and motions for the Shield to sit up, but Gladio just huffs at him.

“I’m fine, Iggy. No harm done. I just want a shower.”

“Like we don’t know that already,” Noctis mumbles, and Gladio rolls his sweaty, two-tonne body over him because he’s an arsehole, that’s why.

Ignis is right to show concern. No matter how indestructible a shield, lance, dagger, or blade may seem, Daemon Weapons are not invulnerable to harm. Human forms aside, which can bleed and break just as any other person can, Weapons can withstand damage beyond what would shatter their inanimate counterparts. This does not mean that they cannot be broken; Ignis could bend or snap given enough force, and Gladio can be chipped, scratched, cut, or worn over time.

He can be permanently injured too, as Noctis learns far beyond the walls of Insomnia, fishing rod propped against one shoulder and Gladio looming over the other. There’s a sharp breath and the swirl of Gladio shifting as the coeurl pounces; Noctis ducks, blue sparks of his armiger colliding with the amber light of Gladio’s shield, and the coeurl’s colossal body crashes against them. Black paint shreds under its claws. A snout of fangs and blood tear into the shield, vile saliva splattering Noctis’ face, and his yell resonates with Gladio’s as they _shove_ the monster away, royal magic flaring as Noctis lunges with his sword.

The Crownsguard unit drive the coeurl away, the lakeside serenity tainted by gunfire and blood. Gladio refuses to transform back until they are safe within the citadel, so Noctis squashes himself into the back of the car with the shield thrown over him like a blanket. It is then that he notices the extent of the coeurl’s attack; the grazes and chipped paintwork will be no worse than scratches and bruises that Gladio has suffered before, but coeurl’s incisors have inflicted a gash that gapes open across the top of the shield.

Gladio is lucky not to lose his eye.

Ignis, in the calm yet terrible way that only Ignis can, _flips his shit_. The sight of Noctis and Gladio cowering in the infirmary must certainly be _something_ , for when King Regis and Clarus arrive as stormclouds bring a hurricane, they linger almost awkwardly in the doorway, their concerned fury like a mild spring breeze up against Ignis’ tirade.

“I daresay you deserved that,” King Regis says after Ignis has worn himself out. Thoroughly chastised and quite the sight with gauze looped around his head, one eye temporarily beyond use as the stitches heal, Gladio says nothing from the bed, but Noctis mumbles his agreement. The nurses have no need to keep Gladio overnight, but maybe the infirmary will be the safest place for him while Ignis imitates the coeurl that almost blinded the Prince’s Shield by prowling the citadel halls.

“He’ll probably take a few days to cool down,” Noctis says - _hopes_.

“Optimistic of you,” Clarus deadpans, and the King laughs.

Noctis doesn’t. Gladio buries the visible half of his face into his hands.

Ignis does, eventually, forgive them. The conversation is typical Ignis-style again; while he does extract a promise that they will be more careful next time, he also endorses Gladio’s actions and offers an apology for his _own_ behaviour. The freshly baked tart is unnecessary and yet gleefully accepted by Noctis, and though the whipped cream swirls are neat and professional in every way that Ignis is too, Noctis thinks he can read _I’m sorry for blowing a fuse in front of the King_ in the dusting of sugar.

Gladio doesn’t receive an apology. The Shield concedes with a shrug, adding _fair enough_ with a lopsided grin. This smile only widens when Ignis clicks his tongue and pulls out a brand new polishing kit from his bag, encouraging Gladio to transform - _should you be able_ \- so that something can be done about the damage to his shield form. The most prominent gash will only heal as Gladio’s human body does, but the rest are merely a matter of time, care, and no small about of elbow work.

As Gladio’s Meister, that responsibility should fall to Noctis.

“It’s no bother,” Ignis says, and Noctis shrugs before shoving another forkful of cake into his mouth. Gladio grumbles about _lazy arse Princes_ and earns a stern glare from Ignis, but when his shield form is propped up against Noctis, slouched cross-legged on the floor, neither of them find any reason to complain.

 

 

 

Noctis doesn’t remember becoming friends with the chocobo-butt hair hyperactivity that is Prompto Argentum, but one afternoon as the final school bell rings and Noctis peels his daydreams from the desk just in time to witness Prompto crashing into the classroom like a puppy skidding on four left feet, he realises that he has made a friend nevertheless. By now, the other students know to allow plenty of space for Prompto to flounder into the room, and Prompto laughs self-consciously as he weaves between the desks before plonking himself into the chair nearest Noctis.

“Dude, you slept through last period _again_ , didn’t you?” Prompto says, pointing to the dried dribble of saliva that Noctis hasn't yet managed to wipe from his cheek. “We gotta get some caffeine in you or something. Have you tried that coffee shop down on Fourth Avenue? Ahh man, it’s to _die for_.”

“The coffee or the barista?” Noctis teases, shoving his unopened books back into his bag. He can already hear Ignis sighing about _wasting his education_ from across the city, but Noctis doesn’t care right now.

Prompto squawks, following him out of the classroom. “Hey, I said nothing about a barista!”

“ _Right_ ,” Noctis drawls, pretending not to see Prompto’s freckles disappear beneath the rising scarlet of his face. Ignis will already be waiting by the schoolyard with the car, but that doesn’t mean they can’t take a detour before heading back to Noctis’ apartment. “You wanna hit it up?”

“What - no - you _know me_.” Prompto laughs, shoving Noctis playfully. “Awkward idiot who can’t flirt to save his life right here.”

“I meant the _shop_ , but sure, got anything else to tell me about this non-existent barista?”

Prompto’s fish-out-of-water expression never fails to entertain. “ _Nooooooct_.”

Noctis laughs. “You said it, not me.”

“ _I hate you_.”

“Uh-huh.”

“ _You’re so mean to me_.”

“I know,” Noctis says before shoving Prompto into the car.

If Ignis overhead Prompto’s woeful accusations, then he says nothing about it as the teenagers scramble into the back. They exchange their usual pleasantries, Prompto bumbling in Ignis’ presence as always. Considering Prompto doesn’t have a single qualm against bursting into the classroom as though he’s about to break out into song, his shyness is a paradox that Noctis is yet to understand. Noctis is by no means an extraverted individual himself, but he does not present himself as one. On the other hand, Prompto seems both seamlessly anxious and outgoing, even around people like Ignis, who he has conversed with many times.

Noctis likes him though. Prompto is refreshing in his world of royal duties and expectations. Ignis and Gladio seem to appreciate his company as well, once they persuaded Noctis to introduce them properly, at any least. Poor Prompto had looked like a mouse in a trap when Noctis had gathered everybody in his apartment, and that was before Gladio yanked him into a headlock to make friends the only way he knows how - physically, with a lot of hugging and laughing and roughhousing on the living room floor. Despite Gladio being Gladio, Ignis is the one who seems to intimidate Prompto more. Noctis can understand this completely - Gladio may be physically daunting and a little coarse around the edges, but he is a shield in form and name. _Ignis_ is the one to watch out for, the merciless precision of the lance through and through.

Noctis has lucked out with his Weapons - with his _friends_. He doesn’t have the words to explain how much they mean to him, but he hopes they understand. Prompto, too, has wiggled himself into Noctis’ life with such ease that Noctis looks back on the time without him and feels an _absence_. It reminds him of that awkward period before partnering with Ignis, before meeting and training with Nyx, and though Noctis can hardly remember a time when Gladio wasn’t at his side, it is like then, too, when Noctis hadn’t even known what he was missing.

The problem is - Noctis doesn’t know if Prompto’s a Weapon, and that makes all the difference.

“Can’t hurt to ask,” Gladio assures, lifting a shopping bag out of the boot of the car and dumping it into Noctis’ arms. “Help me with this lot, would ya? Only Bahamut knows how Iggy needs all this stuff. And if Prompto says _no_ , then that’s that. No harm done.”

“What if he says _yes_?”

Gladio shoves another bag towards Noctis. “Depends, dunnit? Why d’you want him to?”

“You know why,” Noctis grumbles, accepting his fate as a trolley as Gladio continues to unload the car.

“Surprise me,” the Shield deadpans, a carton of eggs crunching precariously in his grasp.

“No.”

“All right then, so you _don’t_ need me and Iggy to persuade the council - and _the King_ , of course - to allow you to partner with an _untrained civilian Weapon_ with a somewhat questionable background who you’ve known for not even a year.”

Noctis’ mouth opens - and then shuts. “Look -”

Gladio slams the boot shut, dastardly smug with himself.

“That would be great,” Noctis admits, knees wobbling at the expression. He’s so goddamn _weak_ to Gladio’s smile; part of him just wants to keep his gorgeous bodyguard in a glass box and stare at him forever, as weird as that sounds; appreciate his stupid laugh and his stupid face and love him from afar.

Noctis bites back a curse. Words are dumb and feelings are dumber. He wonders if Prompto would even want to bond with a Meister like him.

“Come on dipshit,” Gladio says, nudging the Prince towards the apartment complex. “I ain’t got all day.”

That is news to Noctis, who is under the belief that his Shield does nothing but spend all day, every day fulfilling his duties to the Prince. “You’re not staying for dinner?”

“Nah,” Gladio replies. “Iggy’s in though. I’ve got a date tonight.”

Sheer dumb luck saves Noctis from tripping over the stairs. “You - what? Why?”

“What sort of question is that? ‘Cause she’s _cute_ , obviously. Don’t look at me like that, I’m not gonna skip my duties or anything.”

“You’d never do that,” Noctis blurts, and Gladio says, _huh_ , as though he hadn’t expected Noctis to say that. Noctis can’t imagine why he would think that, which leads him to wonder if he is reading Gladio wrong. However, by the time he thinks to say anything about it, they have delivered the groceries to Ignis and Gladio has ducked out of the apartment again, and the door clicking shut behind him has an awful finality in Noctis’ mind.

“Is something the matter, Your Highness?”

“No,” Noctis says, but that isn’t true. In fact, there are a couple of things bothering him, and at least Ignis can help him with one: “D’you think Prompto’s a Weapon?”

“There is no way of knowing for certain unless you ask,” Ignis replies, shifting through the shopping for the perishables and the frozen items. “But I imagine that’s what Gladio informed you.”

“Pretty much,” Noctis says, flopping onto the sofa so that Ignis can’t see how much he’s hopelessly _pining_.

“It is sound advice,” Ignis agrees.

Noctis kicks a cushion onto the carpet. “He’s on a _date_ ,” he hears himself grumbling.

There is a moment of silence in the kitchen during which the only sound is Noctis’ mind yelling _ABORT ABORT!_ before Ignis shuts the fridge. His reply is careful and yet still a knife in Noctis’ gut: “I fail to see the connection, unless Prompto is also on a date that you don’t approve of?”

“No! And I never - I never said I didn’t approve. It’s not my business anyway. Gladio can do what he likes. Why did he even tell me?”

Noctis stares at the cushion he kicked away in the hopes that it will magic itself back onto the sofa and smother him. Slowly, Ignis resumes putting the shopping away.

“Gladio is both your Shield and one of your Daemon Weapons and thus cannot, in fact, _do what he likes_. However, he has taken precautions and assured me that he will be contactable at any -”

“I don’t _care_ if I can’t contact him or not - that’s not - _ugh_ \- forget it.” Noctis throws himself from the sofa and scoops up his bag, neither stalking nor warping into his bedroom, but moving with such hazardous haste that he could be described as something in between. He doesn’t move from his bed for an hour, praying that the duvet will achieve sentience and either comfort or strangle him until forgetting Ignis’ soft call of concern as Noctis slammed his bedroom door. Ignis doesn’t bother him for a long while, probably busy with his cooking, which means Noctis fumes in silence until there is a tentative knock at his door.

He ignores it - and the second knock, and the third.

“Err, Noct, buddy?” comes a muffled call, and Noctis has shot across the room before Prompto has finished adding: “You in there? Ignis called and - _whoa_! Hi, okay - hey!”

Noctis drags him inside the bedroom and kicks the door shut again. “I didn’t take Ignis to be such a gossip,” he mutters, feeling a little guilty about the manhandling when Prompto rubs his wrist.

“Eh? About what?” Prompto asks, face creasing in concern. “Dude, you okay?”

“What’s he told you?”

“Err - I think we’re having curry for dinner?” Prompto attempts, flustering at Noctis’ flat look. “I dunno! Is this a bad time? I can leave. He just invited me over for dinner, that’s all, and honestly I’d have to be stupid to turn down his cooking -”

“Oh,” Noctis says, an involuntary sound. Guess Ignis _hadn’t_ ratted him out, and he feels stupid for thinking so badly of his friends. Prompto can’t lie to save his life, so why had Noctis thought he was anything but truthful? “Was that it?”

“Um, yeah? But if something’s wrong then - you wanna talk about it? I can’t promise to give you any advice or anything - or like, good advice, at least, since I never know what I’m talking about, right. Or we can just play video games or something, if you’d rather! I don’t mind. I’m down for anything.”

“King’s Knight?” Noctis suggests, knowing that Prompto will ramble forever if nobody stops him.

Prompto beams. “Sure! I hope you’re ready to get _thrashed_.”

“By you?” Noctis laughs. “ _Please_.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

If Gladio’s date becomes somebody he sees regularly, then Noctis neither sees or hears another word about her. In fact, Gladio seems to be around _more_ often in the following weeks, and Noctis can only wonder if Ignis actually is as much of a gossip as he accused him to be. Gladio certainly doesn’t _seem_ to be spending time with his maybe-girlfriend, but it really isn’t any of Noctis’ business, no matter what Ignis says. His friends are allowed to have lives outside their duties, and at the very least, if Gladio is exclusively into girls then maybe Noctis can cease his hopeless pining.

His crush on Ignis is another matter. Noctis tries to take a page out of his advisor’s book and hope that enforcing a professional relationship will dissuade him of this fancy, but _tries_ sums up the fruits of that endeavour. Ignis goes out of his way to ensure that Noctis’ life is as stress-free and effortless as possible, so it should be no surprise that falling in love with him is the same. Slipping a kiss or two in-between the turns of their conversation would be easy. A brief touch of hands could accompany a _how was your meeting_ ; a laugh could ring with a wake-up call; a touch of shoulders here and there. Noctis could admire him from afar, inhibited, with no need to hide it - but he could admire him from up close too, stealing Ignis’ glasses for the fun of it, patting down wayward tuffs of his hair.

Noctis is eighteen when he wonders when he’ll start thinking about sex the way that everyone else does. He’s not like Gladio, physically affectionate like a bear, and he’s not like Prompto either, who hugs and high-fives and clambers and touches as though he’s starving for it, as though it’s everything he’s ever wanted. Noctis takes _time_ not to feel overwhelmed by something as simple as a hug, so maybe he feels the same way about sex. Maybe it’ll feel good once he’s used to it, once he’s comfortable with everything that leads up to it - having Ignis’ hands on his waist, or Gladio’s paws up his shirt.

Or maybe it’ll feel as unsettling as it does just thinking about it.

Noctis doesn’t like to think he’s avoiding his Weapons, but he does try to spend as much time with Prompto as possible. In Prompto, Noctis finds the ridiculous, kind-hearted, troublemaker of a friend that he always wanted and never had growing up (not in Gladio, not in Ignis, and not even in Luna, her letters all he has of his friend a county away). Prompto is both a brilliant and terrible influence on Noctis’ work ethics, whining for pizza at the worst possible moments and yet still inspiring Noctis at the best, the tidbits of Prompto’s home life that unravel over time motivating him to be _better_ for the people of this kingdom of his. Noctis never asks about Prompto’s parents, and in turn is never asked about his duties, about the Crystal, about the King. Noctis doubts he will ever be ready for the burden that is his heritage - the power of the Ring and the life he gives to the Wall - but people like Prompto remind him of what that burden is worth.

When Noctis finally drops the _we should partner_ bomb, Prompto’s handful of chips misses his mouth entirely and smears vinegar across his cheek.

“Err, what makes you think I’m a Weapon?” he says, scrubbing himself with a napkin. The chips hover uneaten in his hand, and Noctis just raises an eyebrow before nudging his stupefied friend into resuming his meal.

“You’re not already bonded, are you?” Noctis asks, more for the hell of it than a need for confirmation; Prompto spends so little time with anyone else that Noctis would bet the entire Lucis Caelum fortune that he doesn’t have a Meister. “‘Cause we could. Should. I’d like that.”

Prompto can’t seem to believe what he’s hearing. “You - you would?” he gasps in a tiny, little voice, blinking one too many times. “But - what about Ignis and Gladio? What will they think?”

Noctis shrugs, aiming for reassurance but achieving nonchalance if Prompto’s mounting uncertainty is anything to go by. “I didn’t ask Gladio before I partnered with Ignis.”

“Err, dude, maybe you _should’ve_? What if they’d hated each other’s guts?”

“They’re not going to hate your guts, Prom,” Noctis insists, throwing a chip at his friend. It bounces off of Prompto’s forehead, leaving another greasy mark in its wake. “They know I wanted to ask you.”

“They do? Really? And they’re - cool with it?”

“Yeah. Are you?”

Prompto nods, expression stunned, but then immediately shakes his head. His extraverted facade has been forgotten just as he’s abandoned his meal. “Well - sure. But I - I mean. I’m not exactly -”

“Not what?”

Prompto drops his gaze, cheeks a painful red. He begins to fiddle with his bracelets, a nervous habit that Noctis has never questioned but wishes he could understand.

“What is it?” Noctis presses, gently kicking him under the table. “Are you a weird weapon or something? It’s cool, I’m trained in pretty much everything.”

He hadn’t meant to sound like he was bragging, but Prompto laughs either way. It’s not an entertained laugh by any means; it warbles with a terrible note, sad and forced and brief. It’s not a laugh that Prompto should be making any day, and Noctis struggles to maintain a neutral expression at the sound of it.

“Right, yeah, I didn’t think -” Prompto bites his lip; the leather of his bracelets snaps against his skin. He stares wide-eyed at Noctis before admitting, “I’m a gun,” in the voice of someone pleading before a court.

Noctis _huh_ s. “A gun? That’s neat. I was worried for a second there. I thought you were gonna say _a feather duster_ or something.”

(Honestly, he hadn’t known what Prompto was going to say, but a gun isn’t so bad).

“I can’t believe you know what that even is,” Prompto breathes, mouth twitching upwards into a fraction of his usual self. “Lemme guess - Ignis?”

“No he’s a lance.”

Prompto’s next laugh startles even him, and it bellows out loud and sincere. “What - no! That’s not what I meant but -” He grins, wiping away what Noctis hopes are tears of laughter from his eyes. “Ignis would be the scariest feather duster _ever_.”

 _Oh_ , Noctis thinks, realising what his friend had meant with a groan of mortification. “You can’t tell him,” he says, shoving another handful of chips into his mouth to prevent him from saying another else.

“Dude, your secret’s safe with me.”

They grin at each other, fighting over the last of the food.

Noctis slurps down his soda. “So you wanna bond right?”

“ _Of course I do_ ,” Prompto stresses, colouring a sun-burnt rose. “Dude, you’re like my best friend. I wouldn’t want to partner with anyone else and I think - I think we should get more chips to celebrate. With extra curry sauce. And two of those cookie milkshakes!”

“You read my mind,” Noctis agrees, already fishing out his wallet. Gladio and Ignis probably won’t be impressed, but the smile on Prompto’s face is worth it.

 

 

 

Noctis was given his first Weapon. He asked for his second.

But Prompto chose Noctis for himself, on that day in the high school courtyard, with a bump of two shoulders and a one-armed hug, a camera squashed between a Meister and Weapon that were meant to be.

 

 

 

“A gun?” Gladio says, scrutinising Prompto from the other end of the sofa. The movie plays on, temporarily forgotten, and Noctis rolls his eyes as Gladio leans across him, waving a hand under Prompto’s nose. “Come on then, show us.”

“This is a civilian neighbourhood,” Ignis reminds them, but the glow of the TV against his glasses fails to hide his curiosity as Prompto shrinks in a swirl of golden light.

“Relax, I’m not gonna fire him,” Gladio says, inspecting the silver gun with a gentle hand. Prompto is by no means the most impressive weapon that any of them have ever seen, but Gladio considers him with the same reverence that Noctis still feels whenever he handles his Weapons. He can only imagine how it feels to _be_ handled; as a Meister, he will never know. But he could take a wild guess and assume the experience is not unlike how ecstatic and _inappropriate_ he feels watching Gladio appreciate Prompto’s firearm in his hands.

Gladio only rarely wields Ignis’ lance, and Noctis cannot think of a single time when Ignis picked up Gladio’s shield. Neither man are particularly _suited_ to wield the other, but they have never expressed a desire to do so anyway, both preferring to transform at Noctis’ command instead.

But a handgun is a weapon that Noctis can imagine them all wielding.

“D’you even _have_ a magazine?” Gladio muses, and Prompto squawks loud enough to overshadow the TV as Gladio flips him over in search of the release switch.

_/H - HEY! Of course I don’t have a magazine! I don’t need to be reloaded./_

“Wait, does that mean you’re live?” Noctis asks, just as Prompto yelps, _can you stop GRABBING ME??_ and the ceiling shatters in an explosion of light and sawdust, the _crack_ of the bullet slicing through the light-fitting scattering glass across the apartment. Ignis leaps half out of the armchair before the sawdust has time to settle, and though nobody is hurt, Noctis’ heart is pounding against his chest.

“Okay, that was _not_ me,” Gladio insists, holding the firearm at arm’s length as though only _now_ seeing it for the weapon it is. “No way I touched that trigger.”

“Prom, you okay?” Noctis asks, brushing sawdust from his hair. Only Weapons and Meisters that are bonded can communicate when Weapons are not in their human forms, and as such, all three men in the room can hear Prompto’s whine loud and clear:

_/I’m so so sorry, oh my god, holy Astrals, I didn’t mean -/_

“I didn’t hurt you did I, kiddo?” Gladio asks, moving excruciatingly slow with the gun. “Didn’t mean to be so rough.”

_/No, no, you were just poking me - I was a just a bit weirded out that’s all. I’m so stupid -/_

“If you would be so kind as to transform back, Prompto…?” Ignis encourages, gaze darting between the men on the sofa and the hole in the ceiling with a sigh.

_/Can’t you let me just die of embarrassment like this?/_

“I’m afraid not.”

“Nope.”

“Sorry Prom.”

“I hate you guys,” Prompto mumbles, chocobo-butt hair, freckles, pout and all reappearing with another burst of light. He is squished between Gladio and Noctis now, but this only works to their advantage as they scrutinise him for injuries.

“I guess it’s weird being wielded, huh?” Noctis says once satisfied that Prompto is merely embarrassed, not hurt.

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” Prompto grumbles, swatting Gladio’s hand away instead of elaborating. “Seriously, I’m fine! The only thing that’s been hurt is the ceiling - which I’ll fix, or pay for, or something. I’m sorry. This is so embarrassing. I’ve ruined the movie, haven’t I? I can go home.”

“You will do nothing of the sort,” Ignis says, his stare freezing Prompto in place. “Instead, you will help sweep up this mess while I make the necessary phone calls about mending the ceiling, and then we will put the kettle on before continuing the movie.”

His tone leaves no room for argument, so nobody dares. Gladio yanks the TV remote from the depths of the sofa. Ignis dials the phone at his ear while hunting the cupboards for a broom.

Noctis leans into Prompto’s shoulder and whispers, “ _Feather duster_ ,” and Prompto fails to suppress his laugh.

 

 

 

The day that Noctis introduces Prompto to his father is one to be remembered for many reasons. The guards at the citadel gate are now familiar enough with Prompto to allow him entrance unaccompanied, but _starstruck_ is still a word Noctis would use to describe his friend’s dazzling wonder whenever he roams the black marble and gold halls. Many areas of the citadel are still inaccessible to Prompto, just as some are beyond Ignis’ clearance, and a handful are even blocked to Gladio, but Noctis’ quarters and the halls between the training grounds and the Amicitia family household are Prompto’s to explore. He rarely does, and this is probably why he has yet to bump into the King; a matter which Noctis decides to take into his own hands.

“You’re going to have to meet him as some point. You’re one of my Weapons now, and my dad _did_ vouch for you against the council,” Noctis insists, dragging his friend through the maze of conference rooms like a man leading a lamb to slaughter. Prompto is wheezing some _very_ reluctant noises behind him, and behind them both, Gladio is making no attempt to muffle his laughter as he blocks the only escape route.

“But I’m - I’m not a _Lord_ or anything,” Prompto wails, his arguments falling on deaf ears. “I’m not even a _traditional weapon_. He’s going to ask and I can’t lie to him - he’s the King! And what if he asks me to transform? It’s all going to go horribly wrong, Noct, _what if I shoot him_.”

“You’re not going to shoot him,” Noctis reassures, levelling his friend with an _are you serious?_ look before lifting his gaze to Gladio and adding, _is he serious?_ with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Seriously, Prom, we’ll be in and out. He’s just my dad.”

“ _He’s the King!_ ” Prompto squeaks, just as Noctis opens the door and bundles them all inside.

The fact that Prompto doesn’t pass out at any point during the meeting is a win in Noctis’ mind. King Regis takes Prompto’s mortified blabbering in stride, looking upon the overwhelmed teenager as fondly as possible with most of Prompto’s body hidden behind Noctis. Although he’ll never admit it, Noctis finds the sight endearing, unused to seeing such a reaction to his father. Prompto never acts this way around _him_ , and Noctis feels a rush of affection as his newest Weapon stammers through the propriety that Ignis drilled into him just that morning.

“I’d say that went pretty well,” Gladio says out in the corridor afterwards, clamping Prompto on the shoulder. “I really thought you were going to keel over when you got His Majesty to laugh.”

“I can’t feel my legs,” Prompto says in a tiny voice before crumpling to his knees.

Gladio hauls him like a sack of potatoes all the way to Noctis’ quarters, Prompto bemoaning this indignity over his shoulder. He vows to enact revenge on the unruffled Shield, and Noctis listens to them bicker with a shit-eating grin.

Prompto’s chance arrives not ten minutes later, when Gladio has dumped him on the couch and plodded into the next room to phone Ignis. The topic of the Royal arsenal is one that Noctis has only briefly covered with Prompto, and they find themselves chatting about the pocket dimension that Noctis has at his disposal while the feeling in Prompto’s legs return. Just as Noctis doubts that there is a limit of the number of Weapons he can partner with, he explains that the Crystal provides a bottomless reality for him to store and access his other weapons from - and his gear, he adds to Prompto’s awe, as well as camping equipment, fishing rods, and all manner of objects that Noctis has collected over the years.

“How d’you remember what’s in there?”

Noctis shrugs, amused by Prompto’s fascination. “My dad just remembers his arsenal, but Ignis keeps an inventory for me. I’m pretty sure I’ve lost things in the dimension though. Dad says I tapped into it pretty young, so there’s probably toys and rocks and stuff floating around too.”

“That’s _amazing_. Is there a size limit? Can you put _anything_ in there? What about Daemon Weapons?”

Putting Daemon Weapons into the arsenal isn’t something Noctis has considered before, but Prompto’s enthusiasm is infectious. “I’ve never tried,” he replies, excitement building at the thought. “I don’t see why not. You volunteering?”

“Err, _no_. I’m not that stupid.” Prompto laughs - they both laugh, because who _would_ be that stupid? - and poor, unfortunate Gladio takes this moment to walk back in. For a moment, the Shield is oblivious to his impending peril as he shoves his mobile back into his jeans, but one look at Noctis’ and Prompto’s devious smiles has Gladio freezing in the doorway.

“No,” he stresses, crossing his arms as though this will protect him from the Prince’s undeniable will. “Whatever it is - no.”

“That’s a shame,” Prompto sing-songs.

“Yeah, what a shame,” Noctis agrees.

They share a terrible smile before pitching themselves over the coffee table. As far as ambushes go, Nyx would have hauled Noctis and Prompto up by their ears if they beared witness to this catastrophe, but in terms of full-on, suicidal assaults, it does the trick. Wrestling Gladio into his shield form is akin to belly-flopping onto a sabertusk and clinging on for dear life, but just as a voretooth pack has the desperation of starvation on its side, Noctis and Prompto have perseverance and _revenge_. Their heads crack together as Gladio shrinks beneath them, the copper light of his transformation like a bonfire erupting into the night, and if Gladio thought that surprising them would offer him a distinct advantage, then he’s about to think again.

“Now, now!” Prompto cries, tears of laughter and pain dribbling from his eyes, and there’s time only for a squawk of confusion from Gladio before Noctis slams his hand against the shield and wills reality to distort about them.

The glossy black surface of the shield flickers an iridescent blue - once, and then twice, as though Noctis’ magic is unsure of the command, and Prompto whines _oh well_ just as Gladio shatters into light.

“Wow,” Noctis breathes, staring at the empty patch on the carpet. “I can’t believe that worked.”

Prompto’s expression is one of flabbergast awe. “Neither can I,” he says, and what follows is the necessary silence to process this monumental event before the two teenagers fall over themselves in _sheer, unthinkable terror_.

“ _Holy Bahamut on a bicycle_ , pull him out, pull him out!”

Noctis shoves his hand into the Royal realm. Gladio _clang-thuds_ onto the carpet at their feet and lies unmarred but unmoving, inanimate so unlike a Daemon Weapon on the floor.

Noctis and Prompto are still screaming about it when Ignis arrives.

“IGNIS,” Prompto yells - or Noctis yells, or maybe both of them yell, clambering together as one to reach the dumbfounded advisor in the entrance hallway. Slung over one arm is his coat, and in the other is his mobile, ringing fruitlessly for the phone that vanished into another dimension with Gladio. Ignis snaps to attention at the sight of the two teenagers crashing into the hallway, dropping all of his possessions as Prompto barrels into him.

“I THINK WE KILLED GLADIO,” Prompto wails, to which Noctis adds in a deathly whisper, _we didn’t mean to_.

“Pardon?” Ignis says, whereas anybody else would blurt _run that by me again?_ He pats Prompto’s fluffy crown as one would pat a screaming marlboro and looks to Noctis for clarification.

“Err - I might’ve put Gladio in the arsenal?” Noctis provides, and if looks could kill, he would’ve died right then and there at Ignis’ appalled gasp of _you did what?_ Aware that their lives are now on the line, Noctis coaxes Prompto back to his side and stumbles over an explanation. “I took him out again immediately! I mean, I didn’t think it was going to work to be honest -”

“Where is he now?”

“Um - by the sofa -”

Ignis sweeps through the doorway, bag and coat left strewn in the hall. Prompto’s panic has only mounted since the advisor’s arrival, and considering that they may as well have let a snowstorm into Noctis’ quarters for how Ignis’ hurried departure has left them frozen, Noctis doesn’t blame him.

“We’re dead,” Prompto cries. “ _We’re so dead_.”

Noctis thinks back to the incident where Gladio almost lost an eye and agrees.

 

 

 

Gladio, as the Six themselves have decreed, granting Noctis the fortune beyond all other mortal men, is _not dead_ , but he does suffer after regaining consciousness to a spectrum of terrified faces above him by vomiting in the bathroom for two hours. Only once his stomach has settled can Ignis offer him the anti-nausea medication intended for Prompto’s nerves, and by that point, Gladio is too exhausted to even muster a glare at the duo cowering in the living space.

Prompto can’t stop apologising. Noctis simply refills Gladio’s glass of water and offers, “Well at least we know it works now.”

He thinks he sees the ghost of a smile flash onto Ignis’ face, but in fear of testing Gladio’s volatile temper, Noctis decides not to mention it.

Although there seems not to be any lingering effects of Gladio’s time in the Royal dimension - bar Ignis’ exasperation and Prompto’s guilt-ridden apologies - Noctis does seek advice from the only other person with intimate knowledge of the realm. Truthfully, he would rather _not_ mention this mishap to his father - the King is a busy man, and Noctis is aware that he is not the priority for his father’s time - but Gladio is a sorry sight huddled in the bathroom. Princely duties aside, Noctis _is_ the Meister in this relationship, meaning he is responsible for Gladio’s health just as he reassures Prompto’s uncertainties and orders Ignis to take a break every once in awhile.

One day he will be King. If he cannot look after his friends, then how will he look after a kingdom?

[Noctis] _would putting a daemon weapon into my arsenal dimension work?_

He clicks _send_ , hoping not to disrupt any of his father’s more pressing duties. There’s no need to worry his father, so Noctis refrains from mentioning that he has already put Gladio in and pulled him out of the dimension. His father still has his doubts about Noctis living independently, and almost killing his Shield in a stupid accident is something the King is better off not knowing.

The reply comes swiftly; barely enough time has passed for Noctis to dread reading his father’s response.

[Dad] _Provided that Weapons are transformed at the time, yes, it is feasible._

[Noctis] _so can they not go in when they’re in their human forms or is it just a bad idea_

[Dad] _Do I have to inform Clarus that his son will not be returning home for dinner?_

Noctis groans, scrubbing a hand over his face, but failing to outwit his father is the least of his problems. In the bathroom, Gladio and Ignis are conversing in low tones, probably plotting ways of murdering their stupid Prince in his sleep. Noctis wouldn’t blame them; if he has read his father’s text right, then his thoughtless could’ve caused some serious harm.

His phone buzzes again, a second message from his father.

[Dad] _You are not the first in our family to test the limits of our magic. I trust that you would have informed me had Gladiolus’ health been dire. He will be well with rest. With perseverance, you could utilise this ability without the unpleasant side-effects for your friends._

Considering that Gladio has spent a number of hours hunched over a toilet, Noctis doubts that any of his friends will be partial to the idea. Nevertheless, storing Weapons alongside his armiger could have its uses for travel or stealth, and he is sure that Nyx could come up with ways to adapt the idea. It will be something for Noctis to think about at any least, providing that he can sway one of his Weapons into suffering through the nausea. Gladio is probably down for the count, but then, he has always dealt poorly with the after-effects of warping too. Ignis is far superior at wielding Noctis’ magic for his own, so he would be the better candidate.

Idly, Noctis wonders how Prompto will take to his magic. Basic endurance training is the priority for Prompto; he may not be Crownsguard, but he is a Royal Weapon now, and Noctis needs to be able to rely on both his human and Weapon form. Accustoming Prompto to being wielded is another pressing matter, but that will come with time and practice, and no small amount of Gladio’s rough physical affection. Beyond this, Noctis will like to see if Prompto is adept at harnessing the Royal magic; it will be cool if he is, but if he’s not, then at least he can wallow over it with Gladio while Ignis warp-strikes them into the ground.

[Noctis] _how did you know it was Gladio?_

[Dad] _You would not be the first Prince to test his magic on his unsuspecting Shield._

Noctis winces at the thought of Clarus’ reaction, and somewhere distantly, he is sure he can hear his father laughing at it too.

 

 

 

High school graduation passes in a flurry of tasteless music, strobe lights and psychedelic dancefloors, and not nearly enough alcohol to warrant the tedious _good lucks_ and other pleasantries from people that Noctis will never see again. Most of the year-group and progressing into university to further their studies, but at eighteen, verging on nineteen, Noctis has neither the time nor the (mis)fortune to leave the walls of Insomnia in search of his academic calling. If he thought that graduating would offer respite from long hours pouring over books and snoozing through class, than Noctis soon considers this wishful thinking as his Royal duties increase.

Instead of suffering through six hours of class every day, he now spends most of his time in the citadel, shadowing his father in meetings or conducting his own, applying the political and financial information that his tutors drilled into him to the real world, to real lives, governing and reporting on the people of Insomnia. The study in his quarters becomes his primary home, a den of books, paperwork, and coffee cups where he can nearly always be found. In the evening, he and Ignis sit at opposite ends of the table and discuss the day’s work, Noctis resting his dinner-plate and mugs atop the ever-mounting pile of paperwork. Most reports are signed with both his name and a coffee stain, but Gladio’s almost-permanent presence at Noctis’ back effectively deters any complaints.

Where Noctis used to crawl through the school hours with Prompto sharing in the suffering at his side, now it is Gladio who trails the Prince day-in, day-out. Unlike Prompto, whose cheery countenance and bright moments of spontaneity can be compared to a puppy, the Shield is a guard dog through and through, never more than a pace away. Truthfully, Noctis would choose Prompto’s babble over Gladio’s steady silence any day, but it would be cruel to admit this aloud. They are not at fault for the duties they have been born into, and Noctis appreciates that Gladio is only doing his job. He is grateful to have found both a friend and a faithful Weapon in Gladio; he can only imagine how awkward disliking his Shield would have been.

With Noctis scarcely separated from his Shield within the citadel, he is pleased and perhaps the tiniest bit surprised to witness a close friendship developing between Ignis and Prompto. Despite working a full-time job in the city now, Prompto crashes Noctis’ quarters most evenings, although he rarely spends the night. As Prompto is still learning to drive, Ignis ferries him back home on the nights in which he cannot be persuaded to stay, and Noctis imagines this is the time during which his Weapons gossip about him - not, that is, that Ignis would ever admit to such, but Prompto definitely does. They are good for each other, Ignis’ serenity curbing Prompto’s anxiety, and Prompto’s jubilance succeeding in coaxing Ignis away from his work. On days where Noctis’ duties drag on, he often returns to his quarters to find the pair pouring over recipe books or bickering in front of the games console. On one particular occasion, Prompto had ushered the Prince and Shield inside to reveal Ignis conked out on the sofa, glasses askew and sewing kit sprawled across his lap, and no small number of photographs already snapped by Prompto’s camera.

They’ve not told Ignis about those photos.

Weekends are when they can spend time together as a group. Noctis’ duties do not grant him a day off, but meetings with the public scarcely occur at the weekend, and the Royal advisors and councilmen are entitled to respite. Saturday mornings are characterised by Noctis hanging around the Kingsglaive grounds, bothering Nyx if he can find them, or practising his warping by warp-racing any of Nyx’s vagabond circle of friends around the citadel. Saturday afternoons are when Noctis and his Weapons occupy the east training grounds, terrifying any unwitting passer-bys with their hollering, bouts of gunfire and flames, and violent renditions of _tag_ and _sticky toffee_.

Prompto continues to squirm whenever somebody wields him. Gladio is an _okay_ shot with Prompto’s silver firearm, and Noctis knows that his Shield can wield almost anything. A Meister’s ease of use of their Weapon reflects the type and strength of their bond; Noctis struggled with Gladio’s hefty shield because he struggled with Gladio in his _entirety_ , but as their friendship developed, so did the trust between them, and now Noctis can wield Gladio almost effortlessly, his faith that the Shield will protect him in sync with Gladio’s desire to protect.

As forging multiple Weapon bonds is a skill unique to line of Lucis Caelum, a Weapon wielding another Weapon is practically a myth to the people of Lucis. Noctis remembers the fumbling exchange when he first suggested that Gladio try the weight of Ignis’ lance; they had acquiesced to the idea if only to please their Prince, and then neither had looked the other in the eye for the rest of the day. Noctis had thought the whole thing hilarious until Gladio had held Prompto for the first time and almost brought down the ceiling, and since then he cannot help but feel oddly uneasy and yet _happy_ to watch Prompto ducking behind Gladio’s shield or Ignis shooting targets to Prompto’s approval.

Ignis is a crack shot with Prompto, which would surprise Noctis were Prompto not simply _besotted_. Every time Ignis fusses - _was that all right, Prompto_ , he’ll ask, _are you okay?_ \- Noctis wants to bury his face into his hands and scream at how stupid his friends are and how _stupid he is_ for loving them and how _stupidly in love they are with each other_. Even Noctis cannot wield Prompto to the same effect that Ignis can. It’s so embarrassing to watch them dance around each other than he wants to take matters into his own hands, but a small part of him _aches_ at the thought that they’ll never love _him_ the same way as each other, and he cannot bring himself to say anything in fear of this ugly truth spilling out. So Noctis relishes his time with Gladio instead - safe, dependable Gladio who flirts with anybody and everybody except him, who Noctis still yearns for and yet is thankful to never have to worry about kissing, or touching, or _Astrals_ having _sex_ with all the same, and who seems entirely unaffected by Ignis and Prompto’s maybe-relationship in the way that Noctis is really, _really_ not.

At least they’re not _both_ pining over people they can’t have. Noctis’ conflicted feelings about wanting and not-wanting to date his friends is enough of a heartache for all of them. He’s got enough on his plate at it is.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
